Shattered
by Jen11
Summary: AU. Five years in the future, a certain spy enters Will's new life...eventually S/V shipper friendly! Please r&r!
1. Default Chapter

Title: Shattered

Author: Jen

Email: jd108@hotmail.com

Feedback: This is my first Alias fanfic, so any feedback – good or bad – would be greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC and Touchstone, and was created by the brilliant JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

Classification: AU

Summary: What if Will had made a different choice?  Instead of going along with the drug addict cover story, he joined witness protection…Now, five years later, a certain spy has is about to re-appear, shattering his so-called life…No worries, this will eventually be S/V shipper friendly!

"Time stood still, Monday morning…Showed me what I had to see, It's not the way I thought it should be." ~ The Goo Goo Dolls, January Friend

            The rain is like ice as it hammers my body, cold and numbing in the grey afternoon.  I used to love this weather.  Sitting inside playing board games, drinking, laughing, I would gaze at you.  I would watch in silence, in awe of your beauty…completely unaware of the truth that lay deep within.  You would smile, and I would fall for it every time.  That smile always won, always left me defenseless.

            But that's not why I'm here, freezing in the November rain.  I'm here to protect you.  I'm here because not being near you is the only thing that will keep them from finding you out.  In the end, I'm here because you're not…

Often, I find myself wanting everything to go back to the way it used to be.  The days when I didn't understand how a banking job could be so important.  The days when I didn't know the truth.  But then reality hits, and I realize that those days will never exist again.

I get to the small café, and sit down in my usual chair in the corner, facing the window.  I watch the rain hit the smooth glass, listen to the soft ping sound as it makes contact, watch the world get blurry for a second as rain streaks my vision.

I wish you were here.  We would watch the customers come in, and laugh as we criticized their choice of beverage, convinced that it had a direct connection to their lifestyles and personalities.  Large coffees were for people with boring lives, long work hours and a tendency to "follow the crowd".  Mocha lattes were for people with exciting lives and excessive amounts of self-confidence; we would watch them with envy.  Hot chocolate was a definite sign of those seeking comfort, trying to make sense of their lives; people like me.  I wonder what you would order if you were to walk through the door right now.  The reality of my situation tells me I'll never know.

I wander to the counter and order a hot chocolate.  I glance at the picture of you in my wallet as I pull out a five-dollar bill, staring at your hair, your eyes, your lips.  I order a muffin too, hoping to erase the taste of your lips on mine, a hint of tequila, ice cream, and chocolate sauce.  The only kiss we've shared, and at the same time, the only one we will ever share.

I force myself back to the table, away from the smiling cashier who looks like you, the long list of possible lifestyles that line the wall.  I consider choosing another beverage, adopting another lifestyle, pretending that I am someone else.  But as I stare at the driver's license in my wallet, I remind myself that I already have a new personality, with a new home, and an unfamiliar name to top off my new life.  Andrew Carson.  It doesn't suit me at all - or at least that's my opinion.  But it doesn't matter either, because there is no one who knows me well enough to find that out.

"What about him?"  Out of the corner of my eye I catch a teenage girl pointing a slim finger in my direction.  Her hair is long and blonde, tucked behind her pierced ears, and her smile is gentle.

"Uh…. a writer, or maybe an actor."  A teenage boy replies.  His mop of mahogany brown hair falls into his eyes as he lowers his head to take a sip of his drink.  I am amazed at how close he is to the truth.  Does he remember the news reports, the articles, the suspicion and confusion that overwhelmed the headlines?  Does he remember my face plastered on the covers of newspapers?  The events are still perfectly clear in my mind, but does anyone remember me?  Does anyone wonder, or maybe even suspect, that maybe I'm not really gone?  No…they can't.  They can't think like that, not without having seen the things I've seen, not without knowing the truth.  There is only a small group of people who know the truth about me, and only member of that group knows where I am.

"No, he's more of a teacher.  Primary school, maybe kindergarten."  The girl's voice interrupts me thoughts abruptly, scraping through my mind like the pain that tore through my body as my tooth was ripped from my mouth.  The same pain that still haunts my dreams.  The girl peers at me, trying to get a closer look.

The guy shrugs, a shy smile touching his lips.  She smiles back, glancing around the room for another victim.  I feel jealousy churn in my stomach, and suddenly my cup of sweet, dark hope doesn't smell so appealing anymore.

I fight the urge to walk over to the couple, tell them how lucky they are.  I want to tell him not to let her go, not to lose her in a sad attempt to play the hero.  It's not what she's looking for anyway.  But he won't see it my way…not until it's too late.  He'll try to be the white, chivalrous knight who saves the day…I guess he hasn't found out that guys like us don't get to play the heroes.

-------------------

            Two hours later, the rain has stopped.  I sit on a park bench, gazing at the passersby.  A couple jogs by, and my mind races back to you.  I wonder if you remember our runs at the track.  I close my eyes, remembering the feeling of my feet pounding the pavement, your bright smile when we finally stopped, so I could catch my breath.  I guess I know now why you always beat me.

            Suddenly, I find myself considering the life I turned down.  If I had chosen the other path, would they have taught me to run like that?  Would they have trained me to shoot and wound without blinking?  To kill without glancing back?  Would I have been able to convince myself that I was doing the right thing?

            Questions grate my mind and I search the shadows - the details I have tried to forget - to find answers.  I lose track of my curiosity, and find myself tangled in the barbed wire of my past.  The unanswered questions, the secrets that I still tell myself aren't true, the double life you led that I never knew existed (and if only it didn't, I would still be with you): it all comes back, tearing off the scabs, and pouring a barrel of salt into my freshly opened wounds.

            I might have missed you if I didn't glance up right then.  I was sick of staring at my reflection in the milky puddle that had soaked through my worn running shoes.  The puddle looked like chocolate milk, creamy and smooth, with a hint of something else.  It reminds me of you.  So much innocence – or so it would appear – with the dark truth hidden beneath the layers of confidence, strength, and perseverance.  Maybe that's why I raised my eyes.  After all, I had done it many times before.  Sick of what I was doing, sick of where I was (or wasn't, maybe), I would glance up, hoping to see you coming to my rescue.

            You are standing by the statue, across the park.  Your black hair is loose around your shoulders – but I guess the wig isn't really your hair-and you sport a strategically placed pair of sunglasses, despite the lack of sun.  You seem to be waiting for something – or someone – as you stand with the utmost calm, leaning against the wet figure.

            I stare at you for a long moment; afraid you are just an allusion.  I wait in suppressed sadness for my alarm to wake me from my nightmare (or would this be a dream come true?).  I know I can't talk to you, and that I shouldn't even be looking at you, but I can't help it.  Five years away from you will do that to a guy.  I wonder what you're doing here, in this blink-and-you'll-miss-it small town.  I wonder why you're still in this job.

I shift my eyes back to the ground, away from you.  I don't want to put you in any more danger; I couldn't stand the guilt.  I can't tell if you've seen me, but I find myself hoping you haven't.

Watching the murky water ripple in the slight breeze, I wonder if I'll ever be a part of your life again…


	2. part 2

Title: Shattered

Author: Jen

Email: jd108@hotmail.com

Rating: PG

Spoilers: All of season one, and "The Enemy Walks In"

Feedback: This is my first Alias fic, so any feedback – good or bad – would be greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC and Touchstone, and was created by the brilliant JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

Summary: What if Will had made a different choice?  Instead of going along with the drug addict cover story, he joined witness protection…Now, five years later, a certain spy has is about to re-appear, shattering his so-called life…No worries, this will eventually be S/V shipper friendly!

AN: Thanks for all the great reviews, guys!  Please keep them coming J  I know this chapter is really short, sorry!

_______

Seconds later your contact arrives.  He is a tall man with short light-brown hair.  He wears a pair of jeans and a navy blue raincoat.  His green eyes are caring, and his forehead is creased like the ripples in the puddle at my feet – but I can't see that from where I'm sitting.  I watch in silence, absorbing every movement and gesture, every emotion that plays across your face.  My mind is shutting down, freezing, as I try to function.  But I can't keep my eyes from staring at you, trying to find some sort of clue in your stance, your disguise - anything to give me a hint at why you're here.  Only one thought courses through my brain: this may be the last time I see you.

I watch as your contact takes a brown paper bag out of the backpack that is slung casually over his shoulder.  He pulls out an apple, and as he takes a bite he places the paper bag on the ground between you.  From where I'm sitting, it doesn't look like either of you has spoken.

You wait a moment before picking it up.  I see you hesitate, but you don't look inside.  I can see the strain in your movements as you struggle not to look at him, not to smile at him as he says goodbye.  He retraces his steps as he saunters away from you, and I swear that he is looking at me.  His eyes meet mine for a millisecond, and I can't help wondering if I have something to do with all of this.

But my common sense kicks in, and I remember my situation.  I am Andrew Carson, the computer programmer.  I have an older brother named Clay, and my mother is a widow.  My father died when I was ten, in a rock climbing accident.  I have commitment issues, and therefore no girlfriend – or should I be married b now?  Ok so I made up that last part.  It's just one of the many excuses I tell people to avoid getting involved in a dishonest relationship.  Dishonest…I don't know what else to call it, and I'm starting to think that maybe my subconscious is helping me avoid being in the same situation you once were.  Is this why you told Danny?  Was it because of the gnawing feeling in your heart, the voice screaming in your head "this isn't right," the sick feeling that churns in your stomach?  I'm afraid of starting a relationship, afraid that I won't be able to keep the past hidden.

I'm about to leave when you start to walk towards me.  I feel my muscles tense as I desperately struggle to think of something that I can do to keep myself from acknowledging you.  I stare at my feet, at the puddle that has soaked my running shoes and is now squishing between my toes.  I can't quite feel my feet.

You look the other way as you walk by, pretending to be interested in a boy and his energetic dog.  The boy throws a red rubber ball and his dog chases after it, the same way it has the past twenty times the boy has thrown it.  Don't animals ever get bored?

You are almost out of the park when I notice the piece of paper in my lap.  How did that get there?  I swallow, remembering that you are paid to do this kind of thing.

I wait until I get home to open the note.  I lock the door behind me, checking all the obvious spots for any unwelcome visitors.  You would think that five years would be enough time to alleviate the fear, but torture seems to have a lasting affect.

I sit down at the kitchen table and unfold the letter with shaking hands.  I stare at the typed words for a long moment, disappointed that I don't see your curved, lacy writing.  And then I start to read….


	3. A Dangerous Request

Title: Shattered

Author: Jen

Email: jd108@hotmail.com

Rating: PG

Spoilers: All of season one, and "The Enemy Walks In"

Feedback: This is my first Alias fic, so any feedback – good or bad – would be greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC and Touchstone, and was created by the brilliant JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

Summary: What if Will had made a different choice?  Instead of going along with the drug addict cover story, he joined witness protection…Now, five years later, a certain spy has is about to re-appear, shattering his so-called life…No worries, this will eventually be S/V shipper friendly!

AN: Thanks to ambrose chavez for the wonderful beta, and to everyone who reviewed.

__________

_Meet me behind The Iris Café tonight at 9:10._

_See you soon._

The note is so short, so empty.  It is the understatement of the century to say that I am disappointed.  My hands are still shaking as I fold the paper back up and drop it onto the kitchen table.  Five years have passed and there is still that wall of danger; the fear is still binding.

Anger sparks within me, and I wonder if any of this was really worth it.  You are still afraid, still running, still hiding…and I still feel responsible.

The hours pass slowly, and the minutes creep by.  Turtles walk faster than this, and I desperately try to distract myself from the Ikea clock that hangs on the kitchen wall.  The TV bombards me with the same boring shows: perfect lives led by beautiful people.  What if TV portrayed the real world?  Would we survive the fear, danger, and death?  I turn off the television in a sad attempt to shut off my mind.  It doesn't work.  I am left sitting on my couch, staring into a black screen as I think about my life and what I have become.

I am nothing.  I may as well have died, tied to a chair in the dark, damp world I have never quite been able to forget.  It comes back so easily, flooding my raw mind and drowning my sense of security.  It is only now that I realize how lucky I am to have survived.

________

The alley is dark and deserted.  I shiver as I lean against the cold, damp bricks.  The silence is biting and every noise echoes in my ears.  Rain drips off the roof, and in the distance car engines buzz.  I wait patiently, ignoring the fear that stabs my gut.

"I'm glad you came."  Your voice is soft behind me, and I jump.

"It's so good to see you."  I reply, forcing myself to calm down.  I hug you despite the fact that we could both die for it.  I am surprised when you hug me back.

"You too."  There is a pause as you tuck hair behind your ear and glance at our reflection in the window of the adjacent building.  You look away, hesitating.  "I'm sorry we had to meet like this."

"I know."  I answer.  "It's ok," I lie.  It's not ok.  I didn't leave so that we could meet in an alley five years later, still afraid of whatever (or whoever) is lurking in the shadows.  I left to save you, to protect you.  I left so that you could step into the sunlight, and stop hiding.  But I don't tell you that.

"I have a favour to ask you."  You announce.

"Sure, anything," I say without thinking.  What is it about you that makes me do anything I can to help?

            You lean against the wall opposite me and exhale slowly.  Your breath forms a silver cloud that swirls into the darkness.

            "Five years ago, I made a choice.  I thought it was something that needed to be done, something that would give me the will to survive."  You pause, glancing up at me.  I watch you closely, trying to see where you are going with this.  "Do you remember the co-worker that gave me the picture frame?"

            "The one who so obviously liked you?" I feel like I'm in the fifth grade all over again.

            "Yeah."

            "I never met him or anything.  All I know is that he worked with you…and that he liked you."

            "His name is Michael Vaughn, and a few months after your "death," we started dating.  In secret, of course."  You glance at me, but I force my face to stay expressionless.  "And eventually, after about a year…I got pregnant."

            I can't help my jaw from dropping.  You notice and look away.  I can't find the words to tell you that you shouldn't be ashamed, that I'm just startled.

            "Ok…Do you…have a child?"  I choke out the words.

            "Elise." A smile finally graces your lips.  "She's three."

            "I bet she's beautiful."  I want you to understand that inside, deep down, I happy for you.  You could never know how jealous I am, how much I want a family of my own.

            "She is…" Your voice falters as you picture her.

            "You wanted a favour?"  I remind you gently.  You nod, straightening your posture before launching into an explanation.

            I listen intently as you tell me about your past.  Secrets I never knew are unburied as a whole new layer of truth is uncovered.  You tell me about SD-6, and about the successful mission to take it, (and its affiliates), down two years after I left.  You tell me about the your marriage that I never got to go to, and your honeymoon in Venice.  You describe the three years of pure bliss that you spent married to Vaughn, raising your daughter.  I could never have expected what you told me next.

            "Sloane didn't get captured when we took down SD-6, and he didn't die either.  Somehow he escaped.  We knew it would just be a matter of time until he found us again."  You pause then, brushing a stray tear from your cheek.  "We were living in France when he came after us.  We've been running for two months now."

            "But what do I have to do with all of this?"  I ask, completely lost.

            "Michael and I were wondering…" You pause. "No, I can't ask you to do this, never mind."  You shake your head.

            "No, what can I do?"  There I go again, speaking before thinking.  You swallow.

            "We were wondering if you could take Elise."  Your proposition hangs in the silence like smog on a typical Los Angeles morning – impenetrable, suffocating and utterly desolate.


	4. part 4

Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC and Touchstone, and was created by the brilliant JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

AN: Well, here's part 4…I'm so sorry it took me so long!  I've been busy studying for exams, but they'll be over on Friday so I promise I'll update more often starting at the end of the week!  Also, thanks to Charity, my wonderful beta, for putting up with my (many) stupid mistakes!__

________

"Uh..." I don't know what to say.

I am shocked into silence.  Take Elise?  I haven't been alone with a kid since I was fifteen, babysitting the annoying kid across of the street.  And even then it was only for two hours, while his mom went to her pottery class.

            I look at you, the hope shining in your rich brown eyes.  You haven't looked at me like this since…No, you never have.

            "Will," you begin, "I know this is so much to ask- "

            "Does she like Kraft Dinner?" I interrupt you, the words flying out of my mouth so suddenly that I don't have time to realize what exactly I'm getting myself into.

            "Are you sure?"  A slow smile forms on your lips…the same smile that has haunted me for years; the one I could never resist.

            "I can't say I'm good with kids, but I can try…" I stop as your arms wrap around me.

            "Thank you." Your whisper echoes in the silence of the dark alley.

            "You're welcome," I reply.

A frown pulls at my face, and I can't stop myself from asking the question that burns my mind. 

            "Will I see you again?"

            "I'll be there for the drop-off," you reply.

            "But how will I know when that is?  Are you just going to drop her on my doorstep or something?"

            My question is stupid, but my curiosity always seems to get the best of me.

            "I'll be in touch," you smile slightly.

            "Take care," I say, a relieved smile brightening my face.

            "You should go," you instruct me.

            Your words are laced with solemnity, and a few tears skate down your cheek as you turn away from me.  I am still for a moment, watching your shoulders shake slightly from sadness and cold.  For a second I consider comforting you, but your words stop me.

            "I'll be fine, Will.  Go home."

            It takes effort to keep myself from disclosing that I have no home.  I have no one in my life, not since it fell apart and I had no one to help me pick up the pieces.  Sighing, I walk away.

            The walk home is long, and shadows seem to follow me as I hurry down the deserted streets.  A sick fear rises in my stomach as I remember that stepping into my house and locking the door behind me won't even alleviate the panic that is mounting in my body.  The darkness has become my enemy, and I am terrified that it will swallow me whole.

            How can a guy like me care for a kid?  I mean, really.  I can't walk down the street without glancing over my shoulder five times a block, or sleep a full night without jarring awake from a vivid nightmare.  What was I thinking?

I push my terror aside to make room for the new thoughts that drown my mind. Trust has become a forgotten concept, or at least it was until today.  I have to make myself strong, and brave.  I force myself to scrape up all the bits of courage that have been strewn into the corners of my mind.  I have to find the hero that died in that chair in Taipei.

Hours later I am sitting at my kitchen table, staring at my small house.  The lights are off, and a sliver of moonlight cuts into the darkness, casting a thread of light across the scarred wooden table.  My eyes scan the practically bare rooms, observing the outlines of old worn furniture.

I pause on the fake Picasso painting that hangs on a peeling white wall.  It's hard to tell by simply looking, but a safe delves into the wall behind the so-called art.  I have never liked Picasso, but with a new life comes a new personality, and re-inventing yourself is easier when you become completely different from who you really are.  It turns into a game, a lesson in getting to know the person you are leaving behind.

            The safe contains the remaining fragments of my old life.  The life of a guy named Will Tippin, a reporter, and devoted friend.  That life spiraled down the drain, leaving behind a few pictures of friends and family, a few articles, and the memory of a life I would give my life to take back.  The tangible specks that remain are stored behind a complex combination of numbers, never to be seen again.  The simple knowledge of their existence keeps me sane.

            It is fifteen long hours before I am contacted.  The request for a meeting comes in the form of a package, delivered straight to my door.

"Andrew Carson?"  The mailman asks as I drag open the front door, still dressed in the clothes I was wearing the night before.

"Yeah," I reply hesitantly.

"Package for you," he shoves a package at me gruffly.

"Thanks," I answer, signing the slip of paper he hands me.

I take the package inside and open it with shaking hands.  A flat cardboard box slides out of the yellowish wrapping, landing with a soft thud of my kitchen table.  I stare at it, contemplating the choice that lies before me – once I open it, I will never be able to go back.  I open the box carefully, to find a single piece of paper.

Go to Casey's Craft Corner this afternoon at five o'clock.  Introduce yourself to the woman at the cash as David Klein.  Casey will take you into the back room, where we will be waiting.

            I glance at my Ikea clock, the metallic hands pointing to ten o'clock in the morning.  I lean back in my chair, sighing and stretching the stiffness out of my body.  Despite the hours I spent lying in bed, still clothed, sleep betrayed once again.  I glance at the mess that fills my house, and pull myself out of my chair to get some cleaning done.  Hopefully the litter of junk will distract for a while.

_______

            The back room reeks of glue and dust.  Craft supplies are heaped hazardously on unstable shelving units, and half-finished artwork clutters the long counters.  It is a poorly ventilated mess, and the fluorescent lighting makes my head spin.

            I lean on a counter to steady myself.  The clock on the wall ticks loudly as the seconds drag by.  It is the same cheap clock that hung on the walls of my primary school classrooms, waiting for the right moment to clatter to the floor.

            You arrive at ten past five, entering through a back door.  You smile at me, and I am so caught up in the sadness in your eyes that it takes me a moment to notice the man standing behind you, and the young girl clinging desperately to his neck.

            "I'm Michael," he extends his free hand, shifting the girl in his arms.

            "It's nice to meet you," I reply, forcing the words to form on my lips.

            His smile is warm, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.  Carefully he places the girl on the floor, and she hides behind your leg.

            "Elise, honey, this is Andrew."  Your voice is gentle and soothing, and Elise clutches you as she looks up at me with big hazel eyes.

            She is the perfect combination of you and Michael.  She has her father's light brown hair, and her eyes are a warm hazel – a combination of yours and her father's.  Small dimples are stamped into her cheeks.

            "Hi," I smile at her, "I'm Andrew."

            She looks at Michael, then at you, and then back up at me.  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear – a habit she undoubtedly picked up from you – and steps forward.

"Can I call you Andy?" she asks after a second.

"You can call me whatever you want."

"Mommy says you're a very nice man, and you're gonna take good care of me," Elise continues.

"I'll do my best," I offer her another smile, and she smiles back shyly.

"Here's a bag with her clothes, and another with toys, toiletries, that kind of thing."  Michael hands me two bags.

"And this is a list of instructions.  Routines, habits, stuff you need to know."  You add, handing me a piece of paper.

I nod, glancing down at the extensive list.

"Our cell phone numbers are on there, in case of an emergency."  Michael adds as casually as possible, but the fear in his voice shines through, blinding in the already bright room.

You slip your hand into his, and I can't help noticing the way his thumb automatically begins to massage the back of your hand, gentle and reassuring.  You lean your head against his shoulder, a silent cry for comfort through the chaos and pain.  Michael slides an arm around your shoulder instinctively, tears forming in your eyes as you both look down at your daughter for what could possibly be the last time.

"We don't know how long…" You choke, and aren't able to get the rest of the sentence out without breaking down.

"I understand," I try to convince you, at the same time knowing very well that nothing I can say will even come close to easing any of the pain that you feel.

Michael is the first to say goodbye.  He scoops his daughter into his arms, holding her against him tightly.  The rub noses, and Elise grins at him.  She seems unaware of the sadness, the separation that looms in the near future.  But from the way she buries her face in his neck, tears filling her eyes as she pulls away, I can tell she is feeling the same pain as her heartbroken parents.

"Be good, okay, mon ange?" he switches to his mother tongue instinctively, worry lines creasing his forehead as he murmurs into her hair.

"I promise," she whispers back.

You take her carefully from her father's arms, placing her on the floor in front of you.  You crouch down so that you match her height, and she immediately stretches onto the tips of her toes and grins.

"I'm almost bigger than you," she beams.

"Come here, sweetheart," you say, pulling her into a hug.

You kiss her forehead and push a few strands of light brown hair out of her eyes.

"Promise something?"

"Anything," is your immediate, confident reply.

"Come back for me."

Elise's words are enough to break your stubborn composure.  Tears slide down your cheeks, and you quickly brush them away.

"I promise."

With one last hug, you turn and follow Michael towards the door.

"You two leave first."  Michael instructs, holding the back door open for us.

I take Elise's hand in one of mine, and her bags in the other.  You squeeze my shoulder as I step past you, thank me one last time, and place a rag doll in Elise's empty hand.

"She never goes anywhere without it," Michael explains, nodding towards the doll and ruffling his daughter's hair as she walks by.

"Take care," I say, glancing back at you as Elise and I step into the grey evening.

I can feel your eyes on us as we walk away, and I continuously tell myself that I am doing the right thing.

Elise smiles up at me as we stop on a street corner to wait for the light to change.  I am too busy trying to distract Elise with a stupid joke ("Why did the chicken cross the road?" – the only one that comes to mind immediately) to detect the black Sedan across the street, and the man behind the wheel watching at us closely.

"Tippin has the kid.  I'm on their trail." He mutters, but I am too far away to hear.


	5. part 5

Disclaimer: Alias is owned by ABC and Touchstone, and was created by the brilliant JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions.

AN:  Sorry for the wait…I know I promised I would have this up by the weekend, but my dad wouldn't let me go on the internet because of that bug.  Please BEWARE!!! This part has not been beta'd, because I wanted to get it posted ASAP…sorry for any mistakes!

_________

            I finally notice the black Sedan when Elise and I are about to turn the corner, four blocks from my house.  It stops by the curb at the other end of the block, apparently waiting for us to turn the corner before following.

            Elise has been talking non-stop for the past ten minutes, and when I tighten my grip on her small hand she glances up at me and her chatter stops abruptly.

            "What?" she asks, fear flashing in her hazel eyes.

            How did she become so perceptive?  But then I remember that she has you as a mother.

            "It's nothing," I reply, but I can tell by her small frown that she is in no way convinced.

            "Are they following us?" she questions as we turn the corner.

            "Who?" I glance down at her, feigning confusion to buy myself time.

            But she doesn't get the chance to reply.  A second black Sedan squeals to a halt in front of us, coming from the other direction.  I leap in front of Elise, hoping to fend off any danger.  But there is no echo of a gunshot, no stinging heat, no salty blood smell.

            "Get in!" The driver's words echo through the suspended silence.

            "Grandpa!" Elise squeals, and the driver's face, visible through the open car window, finally registers in my head.

            "Jack?" I stare in utter disbelief.

            "GET IN!" he yells more forcefully.

            Elise and I scramble into the backseat and the car takes off with a jolt.

            "Base Ops this is Warbucks, we've got the package."  Jack says, and waits for a reply to crackle into his earpiece.

            "Okay, pickup is waiting two blocks ahead," a male voice announces, as if out of nowhere, as I buckle Elise's seatbelt.

            "What's going on?" I finally ask Jack.

            "There isn't time to explain right now.  You're going to be taken to a safe house." He answers, his eyes traveling back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror.

            I can feel the blood draining from my face at his words.  A safe house?  From my experience, safe houses aren't safe at all…just the beginning to getting yourself kidnapped, tortured and eventually forgotten.

            "You're joking, right?"

            "No, Mr. Carson, this is not my idea of a joke," he answers tersely.

            Elise, who is gripping my arm with both of her small hands, finally speaks.

            "Are we going back to France?" she asks, much more than a hint of excitement in her voice.

            Jack Bristow actually smiles at this, although his eyes are brimmed with sadness.

            "No, sweetheart, not yet."

            "But someday?" she asks.

            Jack flinches at her innocent question, but forces his voice to remain light.

            "Yes, Elise, someday."

            "Pickup is straight ahead," the mysterious voice announces as we turn another corner.

            I glance up from Elise, only to see a truck with the words _Joey's Moving_ painted across the side.  The ramp at the back is down, and Jack speeds up, driving up it and into the truck as if it is something he does everyday.  But then again, maybe it is.

            The ramp rises behind us, closing off the back of the truck, and we are trapped in darkness.  The fear rises in my stomach only to be alleviated moments later when a light is turned on somewhere outside the car.

            "We'll be in here for a few minutes," Jack explains.  "We need to make sure we've lost them before we continue on our own.

            "On our own?" I ask.

            "Without the truck," he clarifies.

            "Where are we going?" Elise inquires.

            "Somewhere safe," Jack answers.

            "But not France," Elise continues somewhat sadly.

            "Not quite, but it's somewhere almost as beautiful," Jack answers, hoping to please his granddaughter.

            It is a weird feeling, sitting in a motionless car while the truck below you rumbles through the streets.  The feeling only lasts ten minutes, though, and then the truck slows to a stop and the ramp opens again.

            The open sky is bright, despite the approaching darkness of night.  The car turn off the city street and onto a fairly deserted gravel road.  Elise's head rests on my arm and her eyes drift closed.  It is only now that I remember the paper that you handed me.

            But before I get a chance to pull it out and read it, Jack speaks.

            "It'll be a few hours before we get to the next checkpoint," he says, "you should get some rest."

            "I'm not sure that that's possible." I reply honestly.

            "It's going to be a long couple of days," he continues, trying to convince me.

            "Couple of days?  How far are we going?"

            "Far enough to ensure safety."

            "There's no such thing as safety," I mutter.

            "No Mr. Carson, but there is the _feeling_ of safety, and for Elise that feeling is her parents.  We're going as far as we need to in order to keep the child's life as intact as possible."

            "Intact? Jack, her life has already been ripped apart.  I mean, being chased by Sloane, and then left in the hands of a person she's never met only to be followed again?"

            "I'm well aware of the circumstances, Mr. Carson."

            "Would you stop calling me that?" I hiss, "it's not my name!"

            Jack turns his head so that his eyes meet mine briefly, before flickering to Elise's sleeping form.

            "It _is_ your name, Mr. Carson.  Will Tippin is dead," he says flatly.

            A few hours later the car stops, startling me out of a light sleep.  The images of my past are wiped away as my eyes adjust to the thick darkness, and the chirp of crickets fills my ears.

            "Wake Elise, we're getting out," Jack instructs.

            I obey, shaking the child slightly.

            "Daddy?" she asks, her eyes fluttering open.

            "No, Elise, it's me, Andrew."

            "Oh," she doesn't try to disguise her disappointment.

            "We have to get out of the car," I continue.

            I pick up her bags in one hand, taking her hand in the other.  We climb out of the car and find ourselves in a field of dry grass, dusted with a light layer of snow.

            And then I see the helicopter sitting in the distance, it's silhouette just visible in the darkness.

            "Let's go," Jack says, leading the way across the field.  A man I can only assume is another agent, walks by, and Jack hands him the car keys.

"Good luck, Mr. Bristow," he says, and Jack nods.

We climb into the helicopter, take our seats, and seconds later we are flying through the darkness, into the unknown.

When we land it is the next morning.  Jack thanks the driver, and we trudge down the steps into the fresh morning air.  It is only then, standing in the dew-covered grass, that I notice the mountains towering around us.  A log cabin is visible in the distance, nestled into the pine trees at the foot of the vast peaks.

"Mountains!" Elise exclaims, a wide grin spreading across her face.

"Let's go take a look inside," Jack suggests to his granddaughter, and I follow behind in a complete daze.

We are greeted by the spicy Italian smell of pasta, and the warmth of a fire crackling in the huge fireplace against the far wall.

"Can I look?" Elise asks me.  I glance at Jack uncertainly, and he nods.

"Go pick a room," he tells her, and she runs off down a hall.

"It's nice," I say to no one in particular, and Jack stares at me.

"There's something in the kitchen you should see," he says calmly, a small smile playing with the corners of his mouth.

I frown, assuming he means the source of the delicious smell, but follow my nose towards the kitchen.

I step into the kitchen to be suffocated by a strong hug…

"Francie?"

But I am interrupted by an energetic squeal from down the hall.

"Mommy and daddy!" Elise exclaims from somewhere in the cabin.

________

AN#2: Ok, I know it's an abrupt ending for this part, but I didn't know how to end it…Anyway, part 6 will be posted soon.


	6. part 6

AN: Things aren't always as they seem…So sorry guys, no happy ending yet!

            I sink onto an overstuffed leather couch in front of the hearth, unable to erase the look of shock on my face.  My mind can't quite form a clear sentence.

            "What are you…how…?"  I sputter incoherently.

            You, Michael, Elise, Francie, Jack and I are all sitting in front of the fire, the only place in the cabin that can hold all of us at once.  We balance plates of pasta on our knees, and beverages crowd the coffee table in the middle of the room.

            "Maybe we should start at the beginning," you say, leaning your head on Michael's shoulder.

            "When Sloane first came after us," Michael says, cutting Elise's pasta into bite size pieces, "we knew that everyone we cared for would be in danger."

            "So they contacted me," Jack cut in, only to be interrupted by Francie.

            "And Jack called me," she explained. "I've been here for about three months now," she continued, motioning to the cabin that surrounded us.

            "We knew that Sloane would catch up to us eventually, so we had to find someone to take Elise.  We needed her to be safe, and it wasn't fair for her to be running from someone else' demons."

            "But why me?" I ask.

            "You were the only person we could think of in such a short amount of time.  Sloane thinks you're dead, or at least he _did_…and we trust you," you reply patiently.

            "But why only take her for two days?" I persist, struggling to stop my curiosity.

            "We didn't know she would be with you for such a short span of time," Michael answers, "The safe house was further along in the plan, but when Sloane caught up we had no other choice."

            "How did you know where to find me?"

            "The CIA has been monitoring you for the past five years," Jack announces solemnly.

            I stare at him in disbelief.

            "You've been watching me!?" I yell.  Everyone jumps at my outburst, including me.  Your fork stops in mid-air, halfway to your mouth, as you, along with the other five people in the room, stare at me in obvious shock.

            I'm not sure why I react that way - I should be happy to have people watching my back.  But for some reason the thought haunts me.  If the good guys have been watching me without me being aware, maybe…no.  No, it can't be possible.  I blink a few times, as if the action will clear my mind.  But my curiosity and fear are too strong, and I can't help but wonder.  Could the bad guys have been watching me, too?

            "It was a precautionary measure, Will," Jack tries to reason with me, but continues before I have a chance to argue.  "I had informed Sydney that you frequently spent time in Masker Park, and she therefore planned the drop off of the letter around that knowledge."

            "When did I go back to being Will?" I ask, barely able to register the other information in my head.

            "When you stepped into safety.  Yesterday I was worried that we wouldn't make it here, that we might get caught," your father pauses.

I think everyone is surprised that he is, for what could possibly be the very first time, admitting that he actually _felt_ something.  But the look on your face proves me wrong.  You've obviously seen this side of him before.

Although I have made it clear once before that safety is simply an allusion to me, I don't bring this belief up again, for fear of your reaction, or that of Michael.  I don't want to scare Elise, and I know that that's exactly what I would do.

"I was simply protecting my granddaughter," he explains. "If she had known the truth, that you are Will, not Andrew, it could have compromised her at the hands of the enemy."  His words cause the room to go absolutely silent.

Despite the fire's heat, a chill settles over the room, and your face blanches.  Jack's face falters as he realizes his mistake, but Elise frowns, confused by the sudden tension.

"What's wrong?" she asks after a second, her eyes searching each face for a clue.

"Nothing sweetheart, it's ok," you lie, pressing a kiss into your daughter's hair as your father's words undoubtedly boom through your mind._…it could have compromised her at the hands of the enemy…_

Jack clears his throat, and the tension eases a little.

"It's been a long day, we should all get some rest," Francie splinters the silence.

"I'll do the dishes," Michael offers.

"I'll help," you add as we collect everyone's plates and bring them to the kitchen.

__________

            I sit by the fire, staring at the dancing golden and crimson flames.  I can feel Jack watching me from his seat across the room, and assume he is trying to measure the extent of my inner pain, something equally unnecessary.

            A heavy sigh escapes me as I think about what has happened in the past few days.  The fear is beginning to sink in, and the unavoidable feeling of being watched, maybe even hunted, is stabbing me in the gut.  How did I get myself into this?  How did I dig myself deeper into this suffocating pit of lies and falsity?  I am hiding once again, flinching at the slightest sound, trying to bury myself in the happiness that fills me when I think that I have found you once again….Or that you have found me.

            My thoughts are interrupted by your warm laugh floating from the kitchen.  I pick up the empty hot chocolate mug that I had placed at my feet, and saunter into the kitchen to see what's going on.

            You are snuggled into Michael's arms, your flushed face upturned towards his with an expression of obvious delight as he brushes soapsuds off your face.

            "Hey, Will," you greet me warmly without removing yourself from his hold.

            "I see I missed a water fight," I grin, glancing at the spots of water that mark your clothes.  For the first time in three months, you look truly happy.

            Suddenly Elise rushes into the room, tugging on Michael's pant leg.

            "What is it, sweetie?" he asks, deep worry lines immediately creasing his forehead.

            "Grandpa Jack asked me to ask you if you forgot that I was up.  He says it's getting late."

            "Grandpa Jack's right, let's get you to bed," Michael laughs.

            "Just a little longer?" your daughter pleads.

            "It's pretty late, hun," you say, but your resolve is already breaking.

            "Can I have a story?" she compromises.

            "Okay, a story and then you go to bed," Michael agrees.

            "Five stories?" Elise persists, "One from each person?"

            "Francie is already in bed, sweetheart."

            "Then from everybody else?" she asks, her hazel eyes sparkling as she pulls on your pant leg.

            You and Michael exchange glances, and then Michael turns to his daughter.

            "You'll have to ask them, ok?"

            A huge grin spreads across Elise's face, along with a set of adorable dimples.

            It is decided through a silent glance between you and Michael that Elise will be sleeping with you in your bed tonight.  Once Elise is settled under the covers, she chooses a story for each person to read.  I have never heard Jack so relaxed and carefree before, and I glance over at you as he reads Elise the story she pulled from a large pile beside her bed.  You smile at me, a sad small that is apparently reminiscent of when your father read stories to you as a child.

            A few minutes later it is my turn.

            "What story do you want me to read?" I ask, sitting on the edge of Elise's bed.

            "Don't read one, _tell_ me one," Elise requests.

            "Why don't you want me to read one?"

            "Mommy said you used to tell stories in the newspaper."

            I glance over my shoulder at you, but you pretend to be interested in an imaginary piece of fluff on Michael's sweater.

            "What kind of story do you want to hear?" I sigh, giving in to your daughter's pleading expression.

            "A love story," she says firmly, and I raise an eyebrow in surprise.

            "I'm not exactly an exert on love, but I can try."

            I wrack my brain for a "love story," searching desperately for some sort of inspiration, when suddenly it hits me.  The perfect love story is right in front of me.

            "Once upon a time," I begin, and Elise giggles, "there was a handsome prince named Michael.  Or at least he was handsome in the eyes of the beautiful princess Sydney."

            "Will!" you laugh, burying your face in Michael's sleeve in embarrassment.  You are obviously aware of where this is going.

            "Princess Sydney met Prince Michael at work one day, and they fell in love right away."

            "Princesses don't go to work, silly," Elise laughs at me.

            "Normal princesses don't, but Princess Sydney did.  She was a very hard working princess, and she wanted to help out as much as she could.  So anyway, princess Sydney and Prince Michael obviously loved each other, but they couldn't admit it."

            "Why not?" Elise questioned, a soft frown darkening her features.

            "The king wouldn't let them.  They weren't allowed to fall in love."

            "But why not?  That's not fair!"

            "But even if they couldn't tell each other they loved each other, they had other ways of showing their love."

            "Like how?" Elise's face brightened.  You and Michael glance at each other, wondering what I'm going to say next.

            "Well, Prince Michael gave Princess Sydney a beautiful picture frame for Christmas.  It made Princess Sydney very happy and she put it beside her bed as a reminder of the prince's love."

            "But wouldn't someone see it there and wonder who gave it to her?" Elise asked.

            "As a matter of a fact, yes, someone did see it.  One day, the Princess' friend, Will the Jester, saw the frame.  It was obvious to him that Prince Michael like Princess Sydney…" I trail off as I glance at my watch and notice how late it is.

            "What happens next?" Elise asks eagerly.

            "You're going to have to wait until tomorrow night for more," you say, pulling the blankets up to Elise's chin.

            "I'll finish tomorrow," I tell her, placing a kiss on Elise's forehead.

            I watch as Michael climbs into bed with your daughter, and she snuggles in close to him.  You chew on your lip as you see this, and I watch you swallow down the lump in your throat.

            "I'm going to go wash up," you tell Michael, and he nods.

            You follow me into the hall and I'm about to enter my room when you stop me.

            "We never really thanked you for this, Will."

            "Don't worry about it, Syd," I smile, "I know they mean the world to you and I will do anything to make sure they don't get taken from you."

            You smile and kiss my cheek before turning towards the bathroom.

            "Will?" you say quietly as I start to walk away.

            "Yeah?" I turn back.

            "You're part of my world, too, you know."

I fall asleep quickly for the first time in years, to the sound of Jack snoring in the next room.  I don't know what's going to happen tomorrow, or anytime, but I know that as long as you're safe, I don't care.


End file.
